Flein is a wanderer
by instinct and need, roaming the known world as the fancy takes him. In the
Highland village of Glenfinnan, women have been raped and brutally murdered. By all accounts, the killer is a waterhorse, a
monstrous shapeshifter. But when Flein meets Donnchadh, first in its equine
form, then its man-shape, he knows the waterhorse is innocent. Flein is drawn
to the shapeshifter, but he finds it difficult to acknowledge it's more than a
monster.

Donnchadh, though
wary, shares the same attraction. They join forces to hunt for the real
murderer, but time is short. They must find the killer before more women
die. Then suspicion is turned on them and the hunters become the hunted.

Excerpt

At the water's edge stood a horse. A riderless
horse. It wore neither saddle nor bridle and the glossy brown hide gleamed in
the May sun. The mane and tail were long, very black and by the look of the
wind-tangles in them, had never known a grooming. The heavy stallion neck
swooped down to join strong shoulders, and arched ribs led on to powerful
haunches. Long black legs and rounded hooves completed the picture of what to
Flein seemed the perfect horse. Sharp ears were angled toward him, deep dark
eyes were fixed on him and the fine head was held high, nostrils flaring.

Flein Traveler smiled, his eyes narrowed and
watchful. He knew danger when he saw it.

"Gods, but you're magnificent," he
said quietly. "I know you. I don't know who you are but I know what you
are." Flein had long ago learned all he could about shapeshifting
predators. Loki was such a one and far more lethal than this creature. The
horse gave a deep-throated grunt that was almost a snarl and took a pace toward
him, its ears flattened against its skull, long neck snaking forward.
"Waterhorse." He had an instant of warning as the muscles bunched and
he hurled himself away from the stallion's charge. Fast as he was, the narrow
head whipped round and carnivore fangs clashed a scant hairsbreadth from his
shoulder. Laughing, Flein put the slender grace of his rowan tree between
himself and the creature. "If I'd known this land had such wonders I'd
have come here sooner."

It might have been his laughter or his lack of
fear, or perhaps it sensed the difference in him that came from his sire, but
the stallion stopped and its ears flicked forward. He was being studied,
assessed by a keen mind.

"So, I'm something new, am I?" Flein
drawled softly. "I've not met the likes of you before, either. I can see
how you'd entice someone onto your back. You're the finest beast I've seen in
many a year, but you won't be chewing on my bones, nag."

The ears twitched and it came toward him,
pacing slowly. He was not deceived. He'd already seen it could move with the
speed of a striking snake for all its size. Reluctantly, Flein drew his sword
and the waterhorse paused.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said.
"Go back to your loch and leave me alone." He stepped out from his
shelter, blade held ready. "I've a long journey ahead of me and I'd sooner
not fight you."

Again the ears flicked forward. The gesture was
purely equine but the growing curiosity in the steady gaze was not.

"Go back." He moved closer and
stopped with his sword point only a few feet from the broad chest. It was more
than a little risky and it put him perilously close to those murderous hooves
and teeth, but it also enabled him to see more clearly the intelligence in the
beast's eyes. "Don't you know an iron sword will kill you?" he
snapped. "And you, my splendid fool, would find it hard to kill me."

The waterhorse wrinkled its upper lip, scenting
him. As a sneer, it was monumental. It came forward until the point of the
sword was almost touching it and Flein smelled the lightness of clover, as if
it had rolled in a meadow. If it feared the touch of the forged metal, Flein
could see no sign of it. The dark eyes were challenging him now, daring him to
chance his speed against its swiftness for the first strike and Flein laughed
again. "Shall we call it a draw between us, then?" he suggested.
"We go our separate ways and agree not to harm each other?" It would
be so easy just to grab a handful of mane and swing up onto that sleek
back—Flein got hold of the impulse and smothered it, easing back a pace. At the
same time the waterhorse retreated a short way.

They matched each other step for step, until
Flein was on the road and the stallion hock-deep in the loch. Then the each-uisge
turned and plunged into deeper water, sending up twin wings of spray. Feeling
oddly disappointed, Flein called his horse to him and soothed its sweaty fear.
He took off the hobbles, tightened the girth, mounted and started on his way.

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